Happy people! that once a week at least are sure to lay down all your cares together, and dance and sing, and sport away the weights of grievance, which bow down the spirit of other nations to the earth.
SENT. JOURN. P. 190.
THE MONK.
CALAIS.
A POOR monk of the order of St. Francis came into the room to beg something for his Convent. No man cares to have his virtues the sport of contingencies — or one man may be generous as another man is puissant — sed non, quo ad hanc — or be it as it may — for there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of our humours; they may depend upon the same causes, for aught I know, which influence the tides themselves— ‘twould oft be no discredit to us, to suppose it was so: I’m sure at least for myself, that in many a case I should be more highly satisfied, to have it said by the world, “I had had an affair with the moon, in which there was neither sin nor shame,” than have it pass altogether as my own act and deed, wherein there was so much of both.
— But be this as it may: The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was predetermined not to give him a single sous, and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket — button’d it up — set myself a little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him: there was something, I fear, forbidding in my look: I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.
The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scatter’d white hairs upon his temples, being all that remained of it, might be about seventy — but from his eyes, and that sort of fire that was in them, which seemed more temper’d by courtesy than years, could be no more than sixty — Truth might lie between — He was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.
It was one of those heads, which Guido has often painted — mild, pale — penetrating, free from all common-place ideas of fat contented ignorance looking downwards upon the earth — it look’d forwards; but look’d, as if it look’d at something beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk’s shoulders, best knows: but it would have suited a Bramin, and had I met it upon the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.
The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put it into the hands of any one to design, for ’twas neither elegant or otherwise, but as character and expression made it so: it was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forward in the figure — but it was the attitude of Intreaty; and as it now stands present to my imagination, it gain’d more than it lost by it.
When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying his left hand upon his breast, (a slender white staff with which he journey’d being in his right) — when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order — and did it with so simple a grace — and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look and figure — I was bewitch’d not to have been struck with it.
— A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.
— ’Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address— ’tis very true — and heaven be their resource who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.
As I pronounced the words great claims, he gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunick — I felt the full force of the appeal — I acknowledge it, said I, — a coarse habit, and that but once in three years with meagre diet — are no great matters: and the true point of pity is, as they can be earn’d in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm — the captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the order of Mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I, pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been open’d to you, for the ransom of the unfortunate — The monk made me a bow — but of all others, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first rights; and I have left thousands in distress upon our own shore — The monk gave a cordial wave with his head — as much as to say, No doubt, there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent — But we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunick, in return for his appeal — we distinguish, my good father! betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labour — and those who eat the bread of other people’s, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, for the love of God.
The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass’d across his cheek, but could not tarry — Nature seemed to have had done with her resentments in him; he shewed none — but letting his staff fall within his arm, he press’d both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.
My heart smote me the moment he shut the door — Psha! said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times — but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had utter’d, crouded back into my imagination: I reflected, I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the dissappointed, without the addition of unkind language — I consider’d his grey hairs — his courteous figure seem’d to re-enter and gently ask me what injury he had done me? — and why I could use him thus? — I would have given twenty livres for an advocate — I have behaved very ill, said I within myself; but I have only just set out upon my travels; and shall learn better manners as I get along.
SEN. JOUR. P. 5.
THE MONK.
THE good old monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of him cross’d my mind; and was advancing towards us a little out of the line, as if uncertain whether he should break in upon us or no. — He stopp’d, however, as soon as he came up to us, with a world of frankness; and having a horn snuff-box in his hand, he presented it open to me — You shall taste mine — said I, pulling out my box (which was a small tortoise one) and putting it into his hand— ’Tis most excellent, said the monk: Then do me the favour, I replied, to accept of the box and all, and when you take a pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was the peace-offering of a man who once used you unkindly, but not from his heart.
The poor monk blush’d as red as scarlet. Mon Dieu! said he, pressing his hands together — you never used me unkindly. — I should think, said the lady, he is not likely. I blush’d in my turn; but from what movements, I leave to the few who feel to analyse — Excuse me, Madame, replied I — I treated him most unkindly; and from no provocations. ’Tis impossible said the lady. — My God! cried the monk, with a warmth of asseveration which seem’d not to belong to him — the fault was in me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal — the lady opposed it, and I joined with her in maintaining it was impossible, that a spirit so regulated as his, could give offence to any.
I knew not that contention could be rendered so sweet and pleasurable a thing to the nerves as I then felt it. — We remained silent, without any sensation of that foolish pain which takes place, when in such a circle you look for ten minutes in one another’s faces without saying a word. Whilst this lasted, the monk rubb’d his horn-box upon the sleeve of his tunick; and as soon as it had acquired a little air of brightness by the friction — he made a low bow, and said ’twas too late to say whether it was the weakness or goodness of our tempers which had involved us in this contest — but be it as it would — he begg’d we might exchange boxes — In saying this he presented his to me with one hand, as he took mine from me in the other: and having kiss’d it — with a stream of good-nature in his eyes, he p
ut it into his bosom — and took his leave.
I guard this box as I would the instrumental parts of my religion, to help my mind on to something better: in truth, I seldom go abroad without it; and oft and many a time have I called up by it the courteous spirit of its owner to regulate my own, in the justlings of the world; they had found full employment for his, as I learnt from his story, till about the forty-fifth year of his age, when upon some military services ill requited, and meeting at the same time with a disappointment in the tenderest of passions, he abandoned the sword and the sex together, and took sanctuary, not so much in his convent as in himself.
I feel a damp upon my spirits, as I am going to add, that in my last return through Calais, upon inquiring after Father Lorenzo, I heard he had been dead near three months, and was buried, not in his convent, but, according to his desire, in a little cemetery belonging to it, about two leagues off: I had a strong desire to see where they had laid him — when upon pulling out his little horn box, as I sat by his grave, and plucking up a nettle or two at the head of it, which had no business to grow there, they all struck together so forcibly upon my affections, that I burst into a flood of tears — but I am as weak as a woman; and I beg the world not to smile, but pity me.
S. JOURNEY, PAGE, 34.
FELLOW-FEELING.
THERE is something in our nature which engages us to take part in every accident to which man is subject, from what cause soever it may have happened; but in such calamities as a man has fallen into through mere misfortune, to be charged upon no fault or indiscretion of himself, there is something then so truly interesting, that at the first sight we generally make them our own, not altogether from a reflection that they might have been or may be so, but oftener from a certain generosity and tenderness of nature which disposes us for compassion, abstracted from all considerations of self: so that without any observable act of the will, we suffer with the unfortunate, and feel a weight upon our spirits we know not why, on seeing the most common instances of their distress. But where the spectacle is uncommonly tragical, and complicated with many circumstances of misery, the mind is then taken captive at once, and were it inclined to it, has no power to make resistance, but surrenders itself to all the tender emotions of pity and deep concern. So that when one considers this friendly part of our nature without looking farther, one would think it impossible for man to look upon misery without finding himself in some measure attached to the interest of him who suffers it — I say, one would think it impossible — for there are some tempers — how shall I describe them? — formed either of such impenetrable matter, or wrought up by habitual selfishness to such an utter insensibility of what becomes of the fortunes of their fellow creatures, as if they were not partakers of the same nature, or had no lot or connection at all with the species.
SERMON, III. P. 43.
THE UNMERCIFUL MAN.
LOOK into the world — how often do you behold a sordid wretch, whose strait heart is open to no man’s affliction, taking shelter behind an appearance of piety, and putting on the garb of religion, which none but the merciful and compassionate have a title to wear. Take notice with what sanctity he goes to the end of his days, in the same selfish track in which he at first set out — turning neither to the right hand nor to the left — but plods on — pores all his life long upon the ground, as if afraid to look up, lest peradventure he should see aught which might turn him one moment out of that strait line where interest is carrying him; — or if, by chance, he stumbles upon a hapless object of distress, which threatens such a disaster to him — devou•… passing by on the other side, as if unwilling to ◊ himself to the impressions of nature, or ◊ the inconveniences which pity might lead him into upon the occasion.
SERMON, III. P. 46.
PITY.
IN benevolent natures the impulse to pity is so sudden, that like instruments of music which obey the touch — the objects which are fitted to excite such impressions work so instantaneous an effect, that you would think the will was scarce concerned, and that the mind was altogether passive in the sympathy which her own goodness has excited. The truth is — the soul is generally in such cases so busily taken up and wholly engrossed by the object of pity, that she does not attend to her own operations, or take leisure to examine the principles upon which she acts.
SERMON, III. PAGE 51.
COMPASSION.
IN generous spirits, compassion is sometimes more than a balance for self preservation. God certainly interwove that friendly softness in our nature to be a check upon too great a propensity towards self-love.
SERMON, V. PAGE 89.
SLANDER.
OF the many revengeful, covetous, false, and ill-natured persons which we complain of in the world, though we all join in the cry against them, what man amongst us singles out himself as a criminal, or ever once takes it into his head that he adds to the number? — or where is there a man so bad, who would not think it the hardest and most unfair imputation, to have any of those particular vices laid to his charge?
If he has the symptoms never so strong upon him, which he would pronounce infallible in another, they are indications of no such malady in himself — he sees what no one else sees, some secret and flattering circumstances in his favour, which no doubt make a wide difference betwixt his case, and the parties which he condemns.
What other man speaks so often and vehemently against the vice of pride, sets the weakness of it in a more odious light, or is more hurt with it in another, than the proud man himself? It is the same with the passionate, the designing, the ambitious, and some other common characters in life; and being a consequence of the nature of such vices, and almost inseperable from them, the effects of it are generally so gross and absurd, that where pity does not forbid, it is pleasant to observe and trace the cheat through the several turnings and windings of the heart, and detect it through all the shapes and appearances which it puts on.
SERMON, IV. P. 72.
HOUSE OF MOURNING.
LET us go into the house of mourning, made so by such afflictions as have been brought in, merely by the common cross accidents and disasters to which our condition is exposed, — where, perhaps, the aged parents sit brokenhearted, pierced to their souls with the folly and indiscretion of a thankless child — the child of their prayers, in whom all their hopes and expectations centered: — perhaps a more affecting scene — a virtuous family lying pinched with want, where the unfortunate support of it having long struggled with a train of misfortunes, and bravely fought up against them, — is now piteously borne down at the last — over-whelmed with a cruel blow which no forecast or frugality could have prevented. — O God! look upon his afflictions — behold him distracted with many sorrows, surrounded with the tender pledges of his love, and the partner of his cares — without bread to give them, unable, from the remembrance of better days, to dig; — to beg, ashamed.
When we enter into the house of mourning such as this — it is impossible to insult the unfortunate even with an improper look — under whatever levity and dissipation of heart, such objects catch our eyes, — they catch likewise our attentions, collect and call home our scattered thoughts, and exercise them with wisdom. A transient scene of distress, such as is here sketched, how soon does it furnish materials to set the mind at work? how necessarily does it engage it to the consideration of the miseries and misfortunes, the dangers and calamities to which the life of man is subject? By holding up such a glass before it, it forces the mind to see and reflect upon the vanity, — the perishing condition and uncertain tenure of every thing in this world. From reflections of this serious cast, how insensibly do the thoughts carry us farther? — and from considering what we are — what kind of world we live in, and what evils befal us in it, how naturally do they set us to look forwards at what possibly we shall be? — for what kind of world we are intended — what evils may befal us there — and what provision we should make against them here, whilst we have time and opportunity. If these lessons ar
e so inseparable from the house of mourning here supposed — we shall find it a still more instructive school of wisdom when we take a view of the place in that more affecting light in which the wise man seems to confine it in the text, in which, by the house of mourning, I believe, he means that particular scene of sorrow, where there is lamentation and mourning for the dead. Turn in hither, I beseech you, for a moment. Behold a dead man ready to be carried out, the only son of his mother, and she a widow. Perhaps a more affecting spectacle a kind and indulgent father of a numerous family, lies breathless — snatched away in the strength of his age — torn in an evil hour from his children and the bosom of a disconsolate wife. Behold much people of the city gathered together to mix their tears, with settled sorrow in their looks, going heavily along to the house of mourning, to perform that last melancholy office, which, when the debt of nature is paid, we are called upon to pay to each other. If this sad occasion which leads him there, has not done it already, take notice, to what a serious and devout frame of mind every man is reduced, the moment he enters this gate of affliction. The busy and fluttering spirits, which in the house of mirth were wont to transport him from one diverting object to another — see how they are fallen! how peaceably they are laid! In this gloomy mansion full of shades and uncomfortable damps to sieze the soul — see, the light and easy heart, which never knew what it was to think before, how pensive it is now, how soft, how susceptible, how full of religious impressions, how deeply it is smitten with sense and with a love of virtue. Could we, in this crisis, whilst this empire of reason and religion lasts, and the heart is thus exercised with wisdom and busied with heavenly contemplations — could we see it naked as it is — stripped of its passions, unspotted by the world, and regardless of its pleasures — we might then safely rest our cause upon this single evidence, and appeal to the most sensual whether Solomon has not made a just determination here, in favour of the house of mourning? not for its own sake, but as it is fruitful in virtue, and becomes the occasion of so much good. Without this end, sorrow I own has no use but to shorten a man’s days — nor can gravity, with all its studied solemnity of look and carriage, serve any end but to make one half of the world merry, and impose upon the other.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 135
